Chapter 7
Rosamund’s part was harder.
My father had suggested the test.
She designed the entertainment.
That distinction mattered.
Champagne over the head.
Banknotes pressed into Linnea’s hand.
Guests invited to bid aloud.
The mocking language.
All hers.
“Why?”
We sat in the empty ballroom a week later.
Same pavilion visible through the doors.
She looked beautiful.
That made nothing easier.
“I wanted him to respect me.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
There.
Benedict never liked Rosamund.
Called her decorative.
Too polished.
Too modern.
She knew.
When he offered the House Purse, she saw an opportunity.
Run the old ritual well.
Show the patriarch she understood power.
Enter the marriage not only as my wife, but as someone the old guard accepted.
I stared.
“You humiliated Linnea because you wanted my father’s approval.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Did you ever consider mine?”
She laughed bitterly.
“I already had yours.”
That sentence ended the engagement.
Not publicly.
Not dramatically.
Inside me.
She thought love secured me.
So she spent her effort earning harder approval elsewhere.
I took the ring box from my pocket.
Placed it on the table.
Rosamund stared.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You don’t need to.”
Correct.
She started crying.
I did not enjoy it.
Then she asked:
“Do you still love me?”
“Yes.”
She looked shocked.
“Then why?”
“Because love is not permission to ignore what someone values.”
Silence.
“You knew I ended this practice.”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it back because another man’s approval mattered more than my boundary.”
Her shoulders collapsed.
No argument.
The engagement ended there.
May you like
Love survived the table.
Marriage did not.
